


Silken

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Shameless [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ballet Slippers, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Come Eating, Dean in Panties, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 22:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12568032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Dean finds them in a box, crammed and abandoned behind a collection of lightning glass and unused ash spikes—a pair of pearl pink ballet slippers, with ribbons at least five feet long at each ankle, and in fairly decent shape; no moth-eaten holes, no ripped fabric, no tears in the box or the platform. They’re just slippers, but as to why they’re in a bunker previously housed by strictly men is the question Dean can’t answer.





	Silken

Dean finds them in a box, crammed and abandoned behind a collection of lightning glass and unused ash spikes—a pair of pearl pink ballet slippers, with ribbons at least five feet long at each ankle, and in fairly decent shape; no moth-eaten holes, no ripped fabric, no tears in the box or the platform. They’re just slippers, but as to why they’re in a bunker previously housed by strictly men is the question Dean can’t answer.

“Maybe someone was a collector?” Sam mentions that afternoon after Dean places them on the table delicately, hopefully not enough for Sam to notice. “Or someone left them behind or—Wait, are they cursed?”

“I looked,” Dean shrugs, still eyeing them; his hands itch at his sides. “The card catalog came up with zilch, but considering I found them an hour ago and I didn’t burst into flames, I think they’re fine.”

“Still.” Sam pushes a set of tomes away and takes them in hand, looking them over; so much for safety on his part. “You should get Cas to check them out. If they’re nothing, we can find a box or trash them if you want.”

Dean’s stomach warms unpleasantly at the thought of throwing them out, for reasons he’s not about to discuss with his brother. The last thing he wants is to have a discussion about one of his closest held secrets, and one that Sam could hold over his head for the rest of his life, at that. “I’ll find someplace to put them,” Dean lies, taking them when Sam hands them back. “I’m finally down to the G’s, you sure you don’t wanna help?”

“For once, I’m gonna have to rain check you,” Sam laughs, turning back to the stack of books at his side, about three feet high. Almost all of them require gloves, and Dean doesn’t want to risk tearing any of the brittle pages accidentally. “There’s more in these books about hierarchies than I’ve ever seen.”

“Have fun with that,” Dean joshes. Finally, he found something in the storage rooms that could shut Sam up, at least for a few hours.

Out of sight of the library and walking in the direction of the dormitories, Dean abandons his previous task of rifling through miscellaneous junk and locks himself in his bedroom. The shoes end up sitting at the end of his bed, all ribbons and silk and every bit of Dean’s shame. They’re the real thing too, not those cheap ones Dean had back in Louisville; these could probably support his weight, and more. Almost too expensive to touch, but here Dean is, running the ribbons between his fingers, like the silk can soothe the callouses on his hands and ease the guilt in his soul.

Sam won’t bother him for a while, he thinks, and Castiel is still in Smith Center shopping for god knows what—the least he can do is try them on, for old time’s sake.

His socks come off easy, along with his sweatpants. In a way, he’s still as thin as he was back in high school, but a little softer now, and taller; but he’s scarred and battered, and a bruise mars his right shin, turning a good portion of his leg a mottled purple and green. No longer delicate, like his teacher used to call him; her delicate flower, blooming for the world to see. If only Dean had actually bothered to show that side of himself, instead of keeping it hidden under layers and held behind a veil of virility.

Plus, he hasn’t shaven ever since he was seventeen—he’s a mess of hair now, pale as it may be. “It won’t even look nice,” he tells himself in a whisper, sitting on the edge of the bed. For a long while, he holds one of the slippers in his hands, merely running his fingers over it, letting the memories flutter through his head. He really has gotten older, and twenty years of hard labor and near-death experiences haven’t done him any favors, either.

His foot bounces on the floor; his hands ache. If he’s going to do this, he might as well go all the way.

The right slipper goes on first, and save for being tight in the box, it fits, molding around his foot almost perfectly. His hands shake while he loops the ribbon around his calf, tying it into a bow over the front and letting a bit of the length hang over. His heart pounds and his ears ring while he admires the pink silk against his skin, beauty covering scarred and frayed skin, enough of a contrast to make his eyes sting.

Years ago, it didn’t hurt this bad, to don these in secret with only his classmates as his witness. Now, slipping on the second shoe, he almost weeps, his façade crumbling with every second that passes. Because for three months, three solitary months in Kentucky, this was him, in ill-fitting sweats and too-tight shoes, his bravado knocked down four rungs while he moved, positioned his feet, held up more experienced women even thinner than him.

For a while, he was beautiful in everything he did, and he never told a soul. Never mentioned to Sam where he went for two hours after school, and always lied to his father about what sport he was playing, when John bothered to ask in the first place. No one saw his excitement when his teacher placed orders for their uniforms; no one saw his anguish when he left town the next day. No one ever needed to know.

Pointedly, Dean avoids the mirror when he finishes the last bow and heads for the wardrobe, rifling through the various drawers to find a single strip of satin and lace hidden underneath his socks; the matching bra goes with it, even more horrifying, but he still has it anyway, for those times when he has a few hours to himself, where he can lay in bed and just touch, run his fingers over himself without heat, to feel every scar and curve, every bit of soft flesh.

They still fit, all things considered. The bra never really has cupped him just right, but he never expected it to; the panties, however, are perfect, even if they weren’t really made for his anatomy. Soft cock or not, he can always adjust himself however he wants without threatening to rip the fabric or utterly ruin it in the process. All expensive purchases, all bought under the guise of giving it to a girlfriend, and all hidden in various duffels and drawers and bags, just to give himself a moment’s pleasure.

In the mirror, though, he doesn’t expect what he sees. Not really, anyway; he’s seen himself naked over the last few years, but not like this. Not dressed in pink and flushed red down to his navel, the freckles spread across his skin standing out in the lamplight. His chest heaves as he breathes, and in his solitude, he can hear every inhale, every shaking exhale. The scars aren’t new, but the softness is, no longer hard angles and protruding ribs. Sedentary life has allowed him to grow into his body, finally, the added weight leaving him looking healthy, or at least lived-in. Still thin, but it no longer makes him wince to look at.

Despite the wounds and the bruises and the one faded tattoo, he’s… beautiful. Alone, he allows himself to believe it, to embrace the one thing always used against him, at least until he takes everything off. Palming his cheek, he draws his hand down his throat, chest, over the fabric of the bra and to his navel; he fights the urge to gasp all the while, and just barely, his cock begins to stir in his panties, giving a feeble twitch.

 _You can have this_ , Dean tells himself, sighing until his stomach deflates. _You’re allowed to feel_ —

Someone knocks, and Dean nearly throws himself onto the floor. A pair of black slacks stands on the other side of the door grate—not Sam’s sweatpants, just Castiel. Always Castiel, barging in when Dean least expects it. “Just a minute,” Dean says in haste, reaching for his robe draped over the desk chair. Castiel may have seen him bare down to his soul, but this is one thing he doesn’t need to witness.

Flipping the lock, Dean slings open the door and ushers Castiel inside, hopefully quiet enough to not send Sam running. “I thought you were gone,” he hisses, pulling the tie tight around his waist.

“I was,” Castiel murmurs. “I got back twenty minutes ago. Sam said you were organizing the store rooms?”

Dean huffs. “I was. You freakin’—You could’ve given me a heart attack.”

Shaking his head, Dean turns to sit, toeing his feet together, only to remember just why he was there in the first place. Those damn shoes—the same shoes Castiel is staring at, but not in repulsion. If anything, it’s… admiration, or something softer. Gentler. “I wasn’t aware I was interrupting,” Castiel whispers, almost to himself. “Where did you find these?”

“Behind a box,” Dean stutters, arms tight around his stomach. _Secret_ , his mind supplies; this was supposed to be a secret, and Castiel found out. “I just wanted to… Fuck, man, don’t make me explain this.”

“You don’t have to,” Castiel offers. In the lull, he shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the rack behind Dean’s door, afterwards toeing off his shoes and setting them aside. _Just making himself comfortable_ , Dean reminds himself; _he won’t do anything unless you tell him to_. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“It’s just—It’s hard.” Dean covers his face, no doubt red to his ears. “I haven’t even told Sammy about…”

“Dean.” Softly, Castiel places a hand over Dean’s shoulder. “As I said, I don’t need an explanation. If this is something you enjoy, then I’m no one to judge.”

His eyes sting again, but not for the same reason. Castiel’s acceptance has always meant worlds to him, but now, in the midst of a personal crisis, it means more than he can even comprehend. “Do you mean that?” Dean asks, eyes wide while Castiel looks down at him in awe. “If I show you, you promise you’re not gonna…” _Tell Sam, call me names, out me_ , and so many other things Dean can imagine, and has been through, but none he can ever picture Castiel ever saying. Castiel wouldn’t ever hurt him, even if his life was at stake. _Right_?

“I promise you,” Castiel whispers, secretive. “I’ll never berate you, and I’ll never tell another soul.”

“Good,” Dean breathes, palms his face. Good—that’s good. Castiel won’t out him to the other Angels, or his own brother. “Then I…”

Showing will work better than talking; it’s always worked in the past, anyway. Words betray him, but actions are his strong suit. Crossing the few feet it takes to stand in front of the mirror, Dean holds the robe’s tie in hand. “You swear?” Dean asks again, just for confirmation.

“I swear,” Castiel says, a promise.

That’s all the coaxing he needs. Still, his hands shake and his heart pounds, stomach roiling when he unties his robe and lets it slide off his shoulders into a puddle on the floor. He knows what he looks like now—Castiel, however, is an entirely different story. Castiel’s eyes widen while he stares, lips parting while he takes in every inch of Dean’s bare flesh and every hint of muscle, scars and all. Gently, he traces down the curve of Dean’s spine, both hips, back up to his shoulders, all with warmth and admiration.

“How long have you had these?” Castiel asks, closer now; his socks brush against Dean’s slippers, and large, square hands press into Dean’s stomach, covering his navel. His lips come close to Dean’s ear, and Dean shivers, closing his eyes.

“Few years,” Dean chokes out. “They feel…”

“They’re beautiful,” Castiel murmurs. “Very pretty.”

“Not pretty,” Dean hisses despite himself. He’s always hated that word, those two syllables derogatory and terror-inducing. Castiel isn’t objectifying him, though; he’s just watching and admiring, and touching as he sees fit. Nowhere sensitive, and never too rough.

“Not pretty, then,” Castiel soothes. “Beautiful, like the rest of you.”

Impossibly, Dean flushes darker, his lips parting when Castiel presses a kiss to his nape. God, he’s too good for Dean, sometimes. “I was a dancer for a while,” Dean confesses; he reaches up to cup Castiel’s head, burying his hand in his hair while Castiel laves attention to Dean’s throat. “This girl from one of my high schools—Janine, I think—she said I had the body to do ballet, so she dragged me to one of her classes one day. I got… really into it.”

“But you felt ashamed for it,” Castiel suggests; in the mirror, he catches Dean’s gaze. “You didn’t want to be thought lesser of.”

Castiel’s hands skirt lower, just above his waistband, but never dipping too far south. The idea thrills Dean, though, heat spiraling through him. “I didn’t care how people saw me,” he says, hushed. “No one would’ve remembered after I left town, anyway. But… if my old man figured out what I was doing after school, he would’ve…”

“Your father has never been one of my favorite people,” Castiel hisses; something in Dean heats even further, and his heart skips. “How he treated you was inexcusable. You shouldn’t have to abandon things you love because of his perceptions of you.”

“I wish,” Dean sputters, hanging his head. “I don’t think I would’ve gone pro or anything, but… All the things I’ve done, sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I had the chance to follow my dreams. If I didn’t have to hunt. Hell, what if Sam went to college?”

"You both would’ve been great,” Castiel assures him. With all of his heart, Dean hopes so. “But why the garments?” With his hands, Castiel gestures to Dean’s underwear and reaches up with one, covering Dean’s right pec.

Dean shrugs as best he can, looking anywhere but the mirror. “They feel nice,” he admits, red-faced.

“You deserve nice things,” Castiel hums, reverberating all the way to Dean’s cock. “You deserve to feel good.”

“I wanna feel good,” Dean wheezes, just as Castiel holds him closer, until they’re pressed flush. Castiel isn’t fully hard, but he’s getting there; Dean’s mouth waters with the idea.

Gingerly, Castiel slips his fingers underneath the bra, teasing Dean’s nipple between two fingers; Dean all but keens, throwing his head back onto Castiel’s shoulder. “But you don’t allow yourself to have the chance.” A tsk, followed by a tug. “It’s a shame, because you respond beautifully.”

“Cas,” Dean hisses; this time, Castiel’s other hand does venture lower, cupping him through the fabric of his panties, already hot and straining just from touch and honeyed words.

In Castiel’s embrace, everything burns, every sense suddenly alight; Dean writhes when Castiel kisses the juncture of his neck, while his fingers roam and taunt. For a brief moment, it feels like he’s everywhere, like he’s being touched with more than Castiel’s hands, but maybe his Grace as well. Honestly, Dean wouldn’t put it past him to cheat.

“Will you let me?” Castiel asks, even more heated than before; Dean lets out a pathetic whimper, one he’ll be ashamed of later, and bucks into Castiel’s hand. “Can I make you feel good?”

“Please,” Dean begs, with all his heart. “Please, Castiel.”

For all of Dean’s facades, he can’t help but melt under guidance, just from a firm hand and kind words. With Castiel’s assurance, he drops back onto the mattress and parts his legs just enough for Castiel to fit between them, hands fisting the bedspread in a struggle not to reach out and touch. “I want you to come on my face,” Castiel says, rearing back enough to shrug off his jacket, tossing it in the direction of the desk and not quite making it. “Can you do that for me?”

 _Like I couldn’t_ , Dean thinks, swallowing. “Yes, sir,” he tries instead, hating how his face burns with those two words. He’s still getting used to it, this dynamic between them—Castiel wants what’s best for him, and Dean just wants to let go for a while. And Castiel has always taken the reins so graciously, never pushing too hard, and if he does, always helping Dean back down, back into his body and into his head once again.

Really, Dean doesn’t know what he did in a past life to deserve an Angel’s love, but he’ll accept it all the same.

Dean watches Castiel for a while, following how Castiel carefully undoes his shirt cuffs and rolls up the sleeves, and how he slides onto the bed, running his hands up the silk-covered ribbons. Much to Dean’s embarrassment, he stops to kiss the pink bows on each leg, carefully cradling each ankle in both hands while he trials his lips down, to where the slipper and his foot meet. “You have beautiful skin,” he says, mouthing over a knife wound that’s never really faded, still as jagged and red as the day he got it.

“Don’t feel like it,” Dean admonishes, turning his head to the side.

His skin crawls with each additional kiss, over lace-covered scars and bruises, and the blackened portion of his leg that Castiel pays more attention to than he probably should. Regardless, it feels nice, and Dean finds himself sighing, especially as the first hint of Grace permeates his skin, spreading throughout the wound and diminishing it kiss by kiss.

 _This is healing_ , Dean thinks; _he’s healing you because he cares_. Sometimes, it’s a fact Dean has to admit to himself, that everything Castiel does is out of love; he wouldn’t be here otherwise, if he didn’t care.

Not too soon after, he abandons Dean’s legs and crawls further up the gap, only to mouth along the hot bulge of his cock, trapped beneath soaked satin. “How does this feel?” Castiel asks, almost too smug, and tucks his thumbs into the elastic of Dean’s panties, tugging them down in increments until his cock falls free, thick and leaking everywhere.

“Good,” Dean breathes, head still turned. Leaning up, Castiel guides him back with a single finger to his chin. This time, Dean has no choice but to look, to see the wonder on Castiel’s face. He kisses promise into Dean’s lips, and Dean opens to him, sliding their tongues together. “Feels good, Cas,” he says when they part. “So…”

“You can touch yourself, while I touch you,” Castiel soothes, sliding down again. His large hands frame Dean’s waist with ease, thumbs riding the jut of his hips. “Anywhere you’d like.”

Castiel always takes him into his mouth with such ease, like sucking cock has been his life’s obsession; it still floors Dean sometimes, just how eager he is to please. Those full, plush lips envelop him so sweetly and easily, and his tongue caresses him with every stroke, teasing the vein underneath. Precome leaks from his slit just from watching, and Castiel pulls back to lick it away, collecting the liquid on his tongue.

This shouldn’t be this hot, but it is—it always is. Castiel cradles him like he’s fragile, and for once, Dean allows himself to be held, to let Castiel stroke his cock while he sucks just the head, tongue teasing just where Dean wants it, coaxing more fluid from him. Touching Castiel’s hair spurs him, and thumbing the corner of his lips gets Castiel to open his eyes, blue and glassy and so utterly focused. Dean’s stomach clenches.

He’s allowed to touch, he remembers; Castiel told him he could, in any way, as long as he focuses on himself while doing so. Running his hands down his stomach feels even more indescribable with Castiel’s eyes on him, with Castiel swallowing his cock to the root; all of his nerves fire, and Dean finds himself arching wherever his hands travel, stomach rising and falling, thighs trembling. His heart pounds in his throat; his knees fall open to allow Castiel more room.

Beneath the fabric of his bra, his nipples begin to harden; Dean teases them with both hands and thrusts his hips, just a little, to test the waters. If anything, Castiel stops and takes hold of Dean’s hips. A sign— _you can do this because I trust you_. “Shit,” Dean moans, head thrown back.

He moves his hips with no regular rhythm, but somehow, Castiel matches him for every thrust, bobbing when he needs to and pulling back before Dean goes too deep. Spit and precome slick Dean’s cock, the noise of it only making Dean harder, the arousal curling tight in his belly. After a while, Castiel wrestles back control and forces Dean’s hips onto the mattress with one hand; the other cups his balls through his panties, warm and aching and drawing up. God, he’s close, but Castiel hasn’t pulled off him yet—Castiel hasn’t told him to come.

“Fuck,” Dean cries, hips straining, his toes curling in his slippers. Castiel squeezes his balls once, twice, just to tease—Dean almost groans with how much he wants this, all of it. “ _Fuck_ , let me, _c’mon_ …”

“Now,” Castiel huffs as he pulls off, voice utterly wrecked.

Nimble fingers stroke Dean hard and fast, and all Dean knows how to do is come, thick strings of white spilling into Castiel’s fist and onto his cheeks, dripping off his chin. Dean grips the bedding until he’s spent, until the claustrophobia settles and he can move again, limbs unlocking and his breaths falling even. Another drop spurts just from watching Castiel lick his lips clean, and his fingers as well, swallowing Dean’s spend without a thought.

Between his legs, Dean can see Castiel straining, cock twitching through his slacks—his only thought after that, to his horror, is to blurt, “Fuck my feet,” without a moment’s notice.

Castiel, thankfully, doesn’t question it. Rearing up, face still soaked in come, he unzips his fly and pulls his cock from his boxers, thick and purple at the head and leaking nonstop. “I’ll ruin them,” he gasps, stroking himself; Dean’s mouth waters out of sympathy. “Do you care?”

Dean covers his face with his arm, other hand still kept in his bra. “I can hand wash them, just— _fuck_ , don’t make me ask—”

It’s not exactly comfortable, having his legs bent into a diamond; his classes may have been years ago, but twenty years later, he aches, both feet pressed together at the soles. Watching Castiel shove his come-slicked cock between them, though, makes it worth it. With both hands, he holds Dean’s feet through the slippers and thrusts, moaning and stuttering until he comes; Dean gasps as he watches white spill from Castiel’s cock, staining the silk, come dripping down his ankles.

Castiel just defiled the color pink for him—and Dean only wants more.

In the aftershocks, he pulls his cock free and sets Dean’s feet down onto the mattress, afterwards fisting himself for a few brief seconds, wringing the last of the come from his cock. “Taste it,” Castiel offers, sounding suspiciously like an order; regardless, Dean opens his mouth and sucks in Castiel’s fingers, splitting them with his tongue when Castiel pulls them free. He’s never really tasted like anything, but Dean still craves him, the heavy weight of Castiel’s cock on his tongue and his spend on his lips.

His entire outfit needs to be washed, preferably on a day where Sam isn’t home to catch him cleaning his only pair of lingerie. “You defiled me,” Dean teases, taking Castiel’s hand and kissing his fingers. “Didn’t think you’d be into feet.”

“I’m not,” Castiel shrugs, sprawling out at Dean’s side. His cock is still hanging out of his pants, half-hard but waning; even then, he’s still huge, every one of Dean’s fantasies combined. “I’m into you.”

Dean flushes and sputters, bumping his shoulder against Castiel’s. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a big sap?”

Castiel doesn’t answer right away; he kisses Dean’s cheek instead, then his lips, and just barely, Dean can taste himself on Castiel’s tongue. “You, a time or two,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I ruined your shoes.”

“They’ll be fine,” Dean laughs, afterwards falling silent. “Can you… keep touching them? And kiss me?”

A strong hand reaches down to cover Dean’s bent knee, fingers just teasing the edge of the ribbons, the bows still tied tight. “Gladly,” Castiel hums, and closes the gap.

**Author's Note:**

> My face is the epitome of the fire emoji right now. Anyways hi! While I wasn't editing, I finished my entries for both Pinefest and the SPN mixtape this year! I... should do something productive, right? Anyway, here's some gratuitous Dean in ballet slippers, which was inspired by fanart that I can't find the link to right now. OTL
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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